Anti-venom

She had ambled and rambled, through the reverie and the bramble;

Unaware that she gambled, with something deadly in the preamble.

Her imagination was sterilized, after a few days without any poetry;

She was bitten and paralyzed, by the serpent of complacency – totally.

The apparently virulent venom vehemently affects her mentality,

Seemingly contaminating concoction course through her personality…

(The motions of her art, aren`t easy to forget –

The waves of emotions, which flood the sight

The ink like blood – mud, which soils the white;

The rhymes, like snakes, uncoil then recoil – applying a bite

Of unmitigated evocation – somehow, a beneficial sensation)…

Yet, this infection, in the plasma of her imagination;

Is the medication for the asthma of her pen,

The alleviation of the restraint of her spiritual Zen,

(Like Pythagoras) Her summation, her perfection – ten.

This was, the elision of all her metrical stagnation,

The sanitation of all her melodious formulations.

Her Anti-venom.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Quasar Of A Mind

The mind is sent into the universe to drift;

The images it initially receives, and sights it conceives,

Are distorted and contorted by red shift -

Still every conception it perceives, it diligently retrieves…

The ingenuity set out on an intergalactic expedition,

To perform some astrology and cosmology;

(Exploring the extragalactic) with full intention,

To correct the course of the psychology.

It lifted past the troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere,

Thermosphere, and exosphere – far beyond the atmosphere;

Leaving the local super cluster and the nine planets behind.

The mind would muster all the ambition, in the hopes to find:

Some new intellectual inspiration, and profound luminosity;

On a stargazing migration, travelling with extreme velocity.

The mind traveled at “impossible speed”;

Faster than light, it would somehow exceed.

It was moving so rapidly that constellations, and heavenly bodies fused;

Yet, to decrease the speed of the vision, it would not – it simply refused.

All of a sudden, it saw the flash from a supernova;

The dying star ahead, (instantaneously) became a black hole.

The conscious felt like a sort of universal Casanova,

Penetrating this beautiful rift ahead was its sole and only goal.

The mind didn’t think twice, and was inside,

And on an awesome current it would ride.

The consciousness felt this excursion was orthopraxy,

As the hole lead him to a whole new-found galaxy.

…By mediation, the mind found astronomical focus;

By dedication, it arrived at the galactic locus.

   

In zero gravity, in dark matter, a gaseous nebula appears;

The electromagnetic spectrum shifts, and the red soon clears.

Before the mind, in the seemingly formless cloud;

An indescribable structure - is hidden in the shroud.

The conscious found this distant quasar,

And collected its treasures like a bursar –

Finally, it returned to the corporeal essence,

Where the imagination has achieved quintessence.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Perfect Period on Paper (Triple P)

There will never be another moment in time like this –

This second when two sets of eyeballs became one.

With passing iteration, the last – is more so missed;

Yet, it is cemented in this verse - to never be undone.

Like the way our urban scene appears in the solar glare,

The architecture rising high into empyrean –

Into the firmament, adorned in cerulean.

Each (currently) modern edifice, which is so massive,

Standing like a titan in the elements totally impassive;

The stone slabs and brick, so inattentive, yet so aware.

The mosaic mural of each passing pedestrian and their countenance…

Native and foreigner, each leaving their own impression –

Another succession in the previous others` procession.

Though their current physical likeness may dissolve,

Each cerebral facsimile, nothing can absolve or resolve.

… On the canvas of the landscape, they leave their eternal resonance.

No matter what the prospective possibilities may convey,

No matter what the impending future may reveal or portray;

This soiree, this occurrence, will never be cliché or passé:

The two optics encountering each other, in this poetic display.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Composition Of New York (2013)

This composition is structured using a bards` verbal precision

(While simultaneously subject to both rejection and revision).

The faces pass, as the words artistically pile;

The rhyme is transparent, as glass, so is the style.

The poetry, has been placed into a mental alembic;

Distilling both meter and cadence, until they are rendered perfect.

Each poems` failure or success is never (ever) pyrrhic –

All entries are new opportunities to see what to develop or correct.

Humanity drifts, strolls through this gorgeous modern city;

The metropolis and its allure are not found only in beauty –

This epicenter is precisely like a diamond dug out of earth

(At first glance the element appears covered in soil);

The precious stone has yet to reveal it`s true worth,

Until it is given diligent observation and refining toil…

The eyes must first destroy all the superficial sights

(The concrete buildings, the moving steel, and flashing lights).

The material world, which holds no value, must be shed;

Until the artificial is gone, and only the natural remains.

Then, the true beauty will appear in the eyes (within the head);

The absolute perfections, and gorgeous glimmering stains:

The combination of nationalities, into a new society;

The variation of rationalities, to create one perfect reality.

The growing tress, like the developing people, are different

(Each carrying their own traits and personal characteristic);

And yet, in the physical image (which they will present)

Each reveal their own perfection – pure and intrinsic.

Moving to the face of the sky, which will continuously change

(During its diurnal movements), its clouds and rearrange;

The same way, that at the start of each and every day,

Millions of new appearances (some similar - like the sun) come into view -

Crossing each other’s’ path as each heads their own way,

Creating a blend out of each picturesque, pristine hue:

The shades of dirt, on the face of each buildings` bricks,

The black old bubble gum on the grey concrete – sticks.

Each street lights` tall metallic silver trunk – each column,

The artistic shadows which are cast under the moonlight,

Each dilapidated building (still standing) alone and solemn,

The rays reflected in the mirrored glass (sent by the sunlight),

The loud growling rumble (emanating from a grate) sound,

As commuters are propelled forward – speeding underground,

The scent of different cuisines (which conjoin in the air),

The joy, anger, curiosity, or indifference in a strangers stare,

The destitute vagabond who sulks looking for hope or rest,

The resolute business person giving their profession their best,

Students heading studiously to their different universities,

The ambiance of each street an avenue (and their diversities),

The way each borough represents its own microcosm,

The way each person seems separated by a vast chasm…

(The artist, comparing downtown to an expensive stone

All the visions (on the ground) under Hyperion’s throne)

… And yet, each exists and coexists, in a city which is still in imperfection;

Each object, seeking to detect and erect, their own sense of perfection.

Diamonds hidden among the distractions and muck,

Waiting for someone pluck them (with a little luck).

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Glacial Butt

A cigarette butt is on the concrete – spent;

People step upon the filter, without relent.

The chill of winter is in the October draft,

Howling in the hollow sound reception devices.

Pedestrians are bundled up, against the bitter cold;

Every New Yorker is attempting and fighting, to prevent

Their skin from, becoming akin to the wind – Ariel sent.

The old cigarette is exposed and pregnable -

Like each passing figures`, un-covered, countenance;  

But, despite being trodden, it is stoic in the frigid ambiance.

Two eyes stare at the butt, wonder what is meant

By this vision… Perhaps some abstruse ken is lent?

Observations, into verse, are prepared to graft;

Verbal harmony, which is played, will be inaudible.

Each tercet is slowly drawn together – each splices;

Creating a, rather unexpected, sense of consonance.

In the algid atmosphere – a response, as the poem begins to mold;

The reaction raising, redoubling, the lyrical lines rhythmic resonance.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Under The Weather

In the late morning chill,

The poet surges forward still -

His cold is a test of the will.

Feeling weak, as the body attempts to write;

Forehead is burning and frying the mind,

Insides are turning and tying into a bind,

All while alert and asleep duel each other and fight.

Knowing the creations cannot be allowed to stop,

No matter the state of the mental or physical condition;

He adheres, like a farmer still tending to each crop,

A marriage in sickness and health, traveling toward perdition.

He`s building verses into stanzas – no stopping the developing,

The rhymes in his frozen mind, the rhythm of ice in his veins,

The tundra of dreams (with sleet of imagination) are enveloping;

These actions cannot be confined, to his physical apparatus and brain.

Like a runny faucet - the eyes and nose are dripping;

With each cough, lungs feel as if they`re paper ripping.

Something as simple as end-rhyme becomes a

Rubrics cube - “red/head, blue… what did I say”?

The brain feels totally lost and confused -

The pain is one cost, and it is also fused

With torpor, the total price leaves the flesh abused;

While rest offers a pleasant retreat, there is a problematic confliction -

Which the heart, to the mind, entreats: Isn`t writing asleep a contradiction.

So

He ignores all distractions on this day off;

Including the nose and lungs, which cough.

His flesh is an iron mesh, his bones are tempered steel;

The winds which thresh him, he simply - refuses to feel.

Though the shepherd may have been weakened by a cold;

He still works these words - his flock of sheep

(They represent his verbal herd), and he shall tend to his fold.

His dedication is pouring, waters extremely deep –

Fortitude (to his profession) fill his flesh, his well.

He draws the liquid, from below, bringing it up -

Onto the grassy page it spills, and there it will dwell;

He adamantly refuses not to strengthen and develop.

Remembering a universal truth

Our professional command (rising still – resolute);

Into the heavens (by our will and demand),

Every action must continue to shoot,

And all trials we should weather and withstand.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Death In The Theater

(The man dove into another description…

To the blank sheet – (as always) his life, he gave;

With a feeling the page would become his grave,

Still his hand traced another depiction.)

Starting a new page, revealing a fresh blank stage;

This is where we start the show, under a fluorescent glow.

Each letter plays its part, as we raise the curtains and start:

The setting is a place called New York City

(The time - the director is intentionally forgetting),

As a soul drifts, among the human race –

Inside his mind, he is feeling pretty sh*tty.

He is consumed by this state of emotion…

His tone emanates with the sadness which escalates,

The cause and reason for this is not the gloomy season.

It`s due to the time which has been lost,

As mortals are moments are too few;

And the past is something we can`t mime,

So each passing second carries a heavy cost.

Like rhymes in a bard`s sad lonely song…

Which are slowly fading from everyone`s sight…

Time can`t be written again, no matter how powerful the pen.

His thought is focused on the prior – the past,

To all the dreams – the prey he never caught.

Failed accomplishments, consume his cheer, like locust;

Lost opportunities, make him shiver, like a sudden icy blast.

His ponderings are unfinished – a sudden interjection -

As the audience watches but the ending is incomplete,

Yet - with a sense of puzzling confusion - they are met.

To the shock of their viewing perception;

From the ceiling the curtains begin to retreat,

The play was perplexing, and the curtains - are set.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Poetic Pebble

The tinctures – the repetitions must be continued,

The old end-rhymes restructured and reused

(All the new formulas and old procedures, must be fused),

Until they achieve sublimation and creation is renewed.

The failed attempts (which frustrate, but) are refractions,

Subtractions, adjusting his path to the zenith – by fractions.

On fifty-third and third, the people of an elevated class;

Smile at each written word, (on looking) as the diligently pass.

Those of the poets’ financial section, nod (with a heartfelt appreciation) at his toil.

They share an unspoken connection – like the rows of the auburn and emerald trees,

Which also strive to grow into perfection - our roots under concrete (unseen in) soil.

They (humanity) all form a collection; leaves, on the brilliant boughs, blowing in the breeze - - -

He is finished with the paid play, so his pen begins the true work.

The conceptions are sail off - far away; to attempt and rework

The sights (the glass and steel city), the eyes believe they perceive.

He fights, and writes whatever he can potentially, poetically conceive.

The pen begins the poetic calcination, while invisible smoke rises

From his secret fires’ generation. With beautiful metaphoric disguises;

The illustrious illumination, still remains almost perfectly concealed.

His words slowly simmer and congeal, until honesty sophistry is revealed;

Mercury gives way to iron (steel), yet he already possess gold. This poet is an adept

(Though he seldom appears as such, using “dumb diction”, around his elders and peers)

A master of combining the abstract, to create a common precept…

He is an embarked captain, on the vast sea of poetry, his versified vessel he steers.

His ship is wisely named: “The Stone”, sailing from home (with steady repetitions)

Each day - resiliently sharpening – honing an error in his precious craft.

The verbal boat, is kept afloat through the paces, it`s purity he conditions.

The imitating commanders, are dammed (to the labyrinth) and quite daft;

To attempt (to replicate and) understand - comprehend the cause of his course

(Unless, they have already ascertained the keys – which unlock the source).

… Still none of these concepts or any comment, remains long in his concerns;

(He left behind regrets) as, without relent, the progress and flame still burns.

Outcast, downcast, he lovingly outpours in torrents of inscribed emotions

(Through his constant abstractions), he continues his personal putrefactions.

The captain unloads his entire creative stores, with his daily written devotions.

He attempts to avoid the tireless distractions (the many modern pollutions,

Those anemic adulterations), which (endlessly) seek to destroy his store of solutions.

During the day (without sextant) and Apollo’s sparrow, he`s directed in both sinew and marrow;

While at night Athena’s owl, provides insight, and allow him to prowl (though devoid of light).

Through understanding, his navigation, has grown;

And now this captain is commanding “The Stone”.

He apprehended the gist – the various elemental compositions;

All vision (which was contained), is no longer shrouded in mist.

He refined his sight (in solace) with precision by (laborious rigorous) revisions;

God made every verse more vehement and vigorous, and strengthened his wrist.

Still, there are those lonely times where;

He sits, among society, with an empty stare

(It may appear, to others, that he located there;

Yet, his mind is lost in heartbreak, beyond compare).

Not over some “love”, which most confuse for lust;

But because his minds’ mettle, life has caused to rust.

And when his spirits sink, all he can think

Is (through the constant mental trials): If only he could, he`d leave the flesh behind;

He would separate the immortal succulent fruit, from the mortal inedible rind.

He sits (All joy he forgets)

Searching for something more (among the ocean of the cosmos) – without relent

Yet

In reality, there is only the moment, and no discovery is more absolutely pure

Then he lets go of regrets

Also, he laughs, remembering that the future he (we) had hoped to find;

Has always been there – latent, misunderstood, and confined in his (our) mind.

- - - Finally, as the poet observes, each set of (apparent) passing eyes;

He sees the universes (behind the differences, the colors - which disguise).

He silently converses with strangers (despite any momentary or monetary disparity),

And in each individual (no matter who they might be) is TRULY a star in our galaxy.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Inconsequential

On the side of a quiet New York street,

This composition is rendered;

Among the throngs of shuffling feet,

This dream develops unhindered.

Fantasies grow without a sound -

Limitless, beyond any imposed bounds.

The stanzas and lines compound

As the heart, almost inaudibly, pounds.

The sky of encroaching obsidian,

Is arriving fashionably late.

Thankfully, darkness has yet to set in;

While the rhymes duplicate.

Expression, digressions, and explanations;

All seem too deep, and unnecessarily complex.

“Le art, pour le art”, or creation for creations

Sake; this does not complicate, frustrate, or vex.

Evening wind, softly caresses and blows

Through deep green, and thick bushes.

With no greater secret to impart or expose,

Or deeper meaning, for why it pushes -

Much like this hollow rhythmic prose.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Revealed Enigmas, Though Irises Negate Any Sight (RETINAS)

His eyes stare (entranced) into the aqueous lake of black,

Like a fisher of fallen, there is something with calling;

Which his pen brings back (to add to the track),

Leaving the joy – sullen, as the horror is crawling.

The incubus is sprawling, through the ink on the page.

Infernally imparted diction is expressed without restriction.

The temper is in a rampant rage, the stanzas develop on a stage.

From the slate river, enemies arise, thousands of eyes filled with hate;

Manifesting from his darkened haze, he`s hypnotized by their binding gaze.

The ocular occult images swirl, closing in around his carcass;

He is hoping and praying, these dark spectacles will pass.

He feels frozen in astounding awe and frigid fear,

The feeling restraining his mind is steadily compounding;

His courage is unable to thaw, as the visions draw near.

The hour is beyond late, and their surveillance does not abate,

More enemies continue to generate – not attacking - but wait…

“What do they want?” his logic begins reasoning and expounding.

Staring deep into the vision of each apparition,

Into each lidless lens filled with animosity and arbor

(This heap of the diabolical division of preterition);  

The initial dismay is trimmed, like hair to a barber.

The evil eyes in collision with the rhetorician,

As he analyzes, he notices another feeling they harbor…

Past all their the enmity, beyond all that is hollow;

He detects an enigma, hidden down deep below.

It feels as though, in the mystery, he now envisions;

He is being imparted, some positive potential previsions.

A developing divination in the eyes begins to show

(His mind becomes astute,

His bravery grows resolute.);

Their stares and glares, he shrewdly, will now follow.

“What is this emotion?” he works tirelessly to reason out.

“They are filled with some purpose, of this there is no doubt;

A stranger sort of hunger, not propelled by famine or drought”

…He notices and detects, that they have a sort lonely sorrow,

From drifting endlessly in the shadowy - in the lurid and obscure;

In stygian nebulous realm, grim and dim – in darkness ever-more.

“Perhaps, a moment of illumination they desire to borrow,

And they seek (if even for a blink), through this body to be free”?

Upon reaching this deduction, their demonic surveys, fill with glee.

He continues to dwell, in their presence for a slight spell;

Making many amends, for presuming they weren`t friends.

To him, many latent caches they unseal,

Many clandestine crafts they reveal.

Rising with a farewell (like smoke from a pyre), he opens his eyes to the night;

Back under the comforting gaze of the sire, and warmth of the moonlight.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Annihilation Of Segregation

The mind is curious, as to how it should start?

What written descriptions should it attempt to impart?

So, the poetry ends up being begun, by outlining

The initial thoughts (which the mind thought).

The hands and ink are soon visually defining,

What the creative conscious, previously wrought.

The various universal ideas grow and slowly pile,

Delivered with a residue of restricted personal style;

To create a broad mosaic – composed of lyrical tile.

The collage contains a hint, of the hues seen

In the multiple faces (each tint), passing by the eyes.

Yet, all these superficial complexions – are a disguise

(All that appears perceptible, is a dream).

Just an archaic, ancient, outdated system of control;

A way for humans to draw barriers, to isolate – and separate…

To take both apples and oranges – fruit,

And overlook that both start with a root.

… To take the color of skin, sexual preference – and segregate.

Differences in the flesh, similarity in the spirit and soul.

Stepping back from the paper and individual face,

To admire the entire spectrum of the human race;

Beauty, allure, and absolute perfection is crystallized –

In every potential variation, which is possibly visualized.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Necromancy

Through the gently blowing air, which lingers like the breath

Felt in those final moments before death,

These words laid their lives bare; and with the same transitory tension,

Magic - they pursue, with hopes of apprehension.

Their ink – their lifeblood is distributed lifelessly along the page,

To be contained for all eternity within this tomb – this papery cage.

The sheet (filled with symbols inactive) appears to be their grave…

… Yet, that image is a reactive illusion (to the immortal path they pave).

The seemingly mundane letters are activated

(Their runic magic is cast and fully generated);

When their encasing is viewed by two - your pair of eyes,

Inertia – proved as lies, as they shed their morbid disguise.

The incantation carries with it, a heavy cost:

As this spell is produced – the poet is reduced,

Until all physical apparitions, are forever - lost.

Until there is no more back, and no more white;

And all poets become, when our days are done –

Is the rhythm of each track, and the message we write.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Discontent

Keep the illusion of fame and appreciation -

All those fragile, perishable commodities -

Which are subject to decay and deprecation,

The words will take acclaim from the oddities.

Do these verses not fit the political correct cookie cutter?

Do they stick to the roof of your mouth like peanut butter?

Perfect! These words are done searching for any approval,

Please reject them – pending some critic`s poetic removal.

Like a lost dog, they searched for a heart and home;

In ridicule and despair they wandered all alone –

And the domesticated rhyme, searching for acknowledgment temporal;

Has become content in grime, happily savage and ferociously feral.

So, frankly “F*ck validation”, some half-hearted affirmation;

Of their lyrical ability. These poems are now self-sustained

By their empirical capacity – no longer held and restrained,

In the quest for consent (never again to be pent)…

These symbols are their own lone resistance,

Continuing their march, with an unyielding persistence –

Their only purpose, reason, cause, or intent

Is (in their angry, fed-up, focused descent):

To express to others opinions, their utterly aloof dissent.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Epitaph

She stood in silence of the empty graveyard...

She wanted to speak, but found it to hard…

Her heart was filled with ravenous regret and great guilt

From all the pain – and she would continuously run away.

In silence of the night tears fell as she hid alone and cried,

In the light of the day, she`d hide in the fortress she built.

A keep - made of fake smiles is where she would, daily, stay;

Until the blood she spilled and salted waters had dried.

The woman, which the rest of the world knew (the camouflage)

Was absolutely content, loyal, loving, and upbeat.

Nothing about this joyful girl appeared at all forlorn,

A testament to her expertly displayed disguise (her mirage).

They knew nothing of her disposition of defeat,

The low self-esteem, and the scars which were worn.

She`d display the deceptive image at her place of vocation;

Showing off the false smiles, in multiple pictures on Instagram.

So deft at deceit, she usually almost believed fiction was actuality.

Why should she not believe in her dishonest creation,

If everyone else believed in the visage (not seeing the scam)?

She fooled her closest companions and lied to her own family…

… To one, however, she was momentarily real and genuine.

Not because she wanted to, but due to all they had been through.

This person was shown her very best and also the faulty –

Had sampled all the sweetness and the bitter and salty.

Through both heaven and hell, their friendship steadily grew;

And like the titanic, they didn`t see the approaching ruin.

Despite the multiple repeated lies and careless disregard from her;

A second-second chance to show loyalty and honesty would occur.

The person stood by her bedside, when she was in the hospital;

And forgave all the untruth, every injury, ignored the suspicion,

Repaired the damage that she cause; believed she would reach her optimum –

Despite endless betrayals, that her commitment would be at its` maximum.

She swore that her love was endless, without any condition –

And this would be the most destructive lie which she would tell.

In their time spent together she`d reveal secrets, she claimed none knew;

Despite her character, the person took those things revealed, to be true.

The deepest desires of her dreams, the fervor and ferocity of her fears;

The person loved her honest smiles and consoled all her falling tears.

She lived in her disguise and tried not to think about the person she destroyed.

All responsibility for the death, she just blew off and would utterly avoid

Thinking about the life, her nefarious ways had carelessly severed apart;

She was an artist who created an odious, abhorrent work of modern art.

She tried to ignore looking or speaking to the grave,

Of the friend, that she didn`t even attempt to save.

She justified her decisions and actions, by relying on advice of transitory friends;

But despite all their instructed fancies and her own delusional illusions,

The reality, the validity, the filthy fact – she couldn`t wash away or cover or cleanse…

Which was: She killed the person with her repeated wicked contusions.

And though the person screamed every obscenity as they died at her hands;

No matter the words said - to this day, one phrase remains and forever stands.

No matter the wrongs, who threw the first stone, how she avoided it; she couldn`t undue

A truth the person expressed as they died… She tried to avoid their last words… “I Love You”.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Monsoon Of Gloom

The winds around the tiny ship were growing.

The captain stood at the helm all alone,

As Poseidon`s breath was violently blowing.

The coward crew had abandoned ship

In a frivolous attempt to swim home.

Precipitation, from the clouds, began to slip.

The true fury of the tempest had, only begun to show.

From aft to forecastle, the vessel was tossed;

As the savage waters, cast the steel hull to and fro.

The captain, as a first mate, survived A Shipwreck before

(The experience, on his soul, was eternally embossed),

So he held his course; although he was still unsure…

… Of what the payment for this journey might be.

He looked up at the sky, and was filled with uncertainty;

As thunder from the black, flashed above the sea.

The captains` disposition was dedicated and humble,

In his heart he fought any sort of self-sustaining vanity;

So his commitment to his mission did not stumble.

The fact, that his own life (to him) was of little value or meaning;

Caused him to steer the ship further forward –

Deeper into the adverse waves, rumbling thunder, rain streaming.

Some might say he was suicidal, and others that he was bold,

But as the craft, into the squall, moved toward –

In his heart the captain felt (of his life) totally indifferent and cold.

The deluge pouring from the clouds was now increasing,

And the raging typhoon had grown – more vicious;

Still, the captains` progress was not close to ceasing.

The wash, now consuming the deck, continued to swell;

And the voyage began to appear - more pernicious –

Yet, the commander feared neither death nor hell.

Doubts of survival began multiplying, rising in the interior;

He felt an intense fear of the craft becoming overtaken,

As Zeus and Poseidon wrought calamity on the exterior.

The pilot knew others were depending on the cargo

(And their reliant trust, could not afford to be forsaken),

Which resided in the holds down inside and below.

The worn vessel was no longer under the skippers’ control –

But, some strange spirit kept the boat afloat and advancing;

Pressing through the behemoth blasts, and each riptide roll.

Suddenly, the man saw ahead, a developing tremendous tidal wave.

He knew that: he and the ship, with destruction were dancing;

And that this last step, enveloping, would drag them to the grave.

In a series of flashing moments (which felt like an hour) –

With the moan of aqua and steel; the ship was submerged in the brine,

By the flood of pressure, from Poseidon` pure power.

Held within the savage drink, there was no air generated;

Sounds and sights were distorted and deafened. After some odd time

Had passed, with the captain in this condition, he suffocated.

The captain felt the life leaving his body, and felt a new fear.

The fear was not due to his current form, now passing;

It`s source at first, like his vision, was occult – and unclear.

Soon however, the reason became evident in his dying mind –

He thought about the souls, with their agony surpassing;

He felt terrible, a new source of hope, they`d have to find.

His sight, in death, grew dark as night, then was bright white.

He was lost in utter stillness – an emptiness beyond the storms` violence.

The place reminded his spirit of staring directly into sunlight.

Formless, he drifted, not feeling a thing – beyond absolutely numb

He attempted to discern a direction, in this realm of light and silence;

And soon felt as if he was falling asleep, to this feeling he`d succumb.

In a moment his vision rejoined the obsidian, and flesh he was feeling.

Opening his eyes, he saw the celestial sphere – the terrestrial ceiling.

He felt the sunshine, and heard the cry of a gull, as he awoke from the lull.

The five senses (at first dull), were detected by the receptors in his skull.

Slowly standing, erect on the deck, he looked ahead and saw port and land;

How he and the battered ship pushed past the tempest, he couldn`t understand.

The only thing which the commander knew, in his heart – through and through;

Was he hoped that the vigorously contested cargo brought joy – to at least a few.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Feign A Brain

The ink creates steamy silhouettes on the paper…

These symbols are no more than an optical illusion,

There is no message hidden in their vapor…

Or is this a smoky lie, a plot to cause confusion?

The shadows speak to any who view:

“Don`t attempt to find substance in us;

There is only stupidity - emptiness too,

We are like a choir without a chorus.

Keep reading then, if you have decided, you would…

We will leave you mind divided – the same way:

A falling axe could cleave – easily – through wood.

Do you imagine a calling in anything we say?

All we will bring (if even this much, we should):

Is collusion and such – poorly written word play.

There is no reason, you should continue with reading-

Steak without season, is on the menu, each of us is bland.

Everything your eyes have heard is lacking true meaning;

Not worth tracking – there`s no sort of lesson on hand.

Come! Come! These fragments. Erratically streaming,

Will only grammatically lessen, your verbal command.

Fine! Since you followed the end lines, line by repetitive line;

We suppose we can attempt to impart something worth rhyme:

To create tons of confusion, follow this each simple rule:

Use us daily, along with a fusion ignorance and intelligence -

Be intellectually inclined but act out the role of the fool

(Or, put another way; be educated, but sound really dense.);

…

To blend in with the crowd: wear a perplexing shroud,

Sit quietly, looking lost, and never boasting aloud.

…

Write like a mule in each public diffusion -

And execute prowess, in solitary revision.”

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Umbra Duplicates

These visions were organized by creative provisions,

Though the mind is in turmoil. All these artistic seeds

Have been planted in fertile soil. Imagination needs

Experience to develop; if the expressions are to envelop,

And captivate the well-adjusted person`s perception -

To activate their node for aesthetic reception.

Through personal pains, pleasure is what now - frames…

Once upon a New York street, along a pathway of concrete;

There was a manly boy, whose heart was filled,

With only joy (from within this emotion spilled).

His care: to find a woman, with whom he could share

His elation. He searched for her everywhere,

But only met frustration, for she wasn`t there.

In time, he felt incomplete; as daily, he`d meet defeat.

There was a woman of cheer, who lived without any fear

Of potential heartbreak (though she was hurt before).

In every step she`d take, she hoped for love that’s pure;

Wishing on the stars in the sky, that she`d meet her perfect guy.

Time steadily flew, and as she looked around;

She began feeling blue, since this wish wasn`t found.

These attempts had left, her cheerful heart - feeling bereft.

This night, under the silver moon, magic would occur soon…

The man carelessly strolled the moonlit gravel, with no course.

His stomach rolled with excitement, due to a yet unseen source.

…Two pairs of eyes would soon greet, upon this New York City street…

The woman aimlessly drifted, along the rough grey stone;

She was now feeling so uplifted, for reasons still unknown.

… It must have been fate – as the man and woman met in the hour – late…

Soon, after this the two began to date.

From the first encounter and forward,

Perfect love, they both moved toward.

Two souls had found each other`s mate.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

An Imagination of Phlogiston

The deprivation of quiet respite it how this starts.

At first a restless feeling it imparts,

This verbal conflagration, burning through the night.

This dark destructive fire uses ink as its fuel;

The page burns, with heat burning higher.

The paper is conductive, the inferno`s binary tool.

Every new line swells the blaze. The growing flame

Creates a lyrically designed maze.

On the sheet, warmth dwells; sparks all along the frame.

Every symbol is an ember, all formations – coals,

Each verse vehemently rolls,

Stanzas flare – so nimble; and together they dismember –

The face of the pristine page, laying it to waste.

The initial mildness, is now a rage;

Searing all over the place, spreading with haste.

-Yet-

Deep within the frenzy`s wake, remains a strange charred vision;

A rather odd sort of “l'art pour l'art”,

The destruction (the fire would begin) is leaving a creative provision.

The insipid initial perception (which was weary) has quickly departed,

Left an alertness, from what the scorching started.

The consuming conception, only, selectively removed what was dreary.

And as the combustion starts to fade, silently without an audible sound;

A crescendo of an artistic, sight lays upon the ground.

The retrospect will hopefully reflect:

A fairly simple path (of rhythmic construction) appears to have been laid.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Power Is Out

The light flickered on and off

A man blew out smoke

Followed by a harsh cough

As a woman spoke…

His eyes were fixed upon the light

Transfixed upon the bulb of glass

When brand new, it shone – so bright

But, then, time must always pass

He remembered when it was first installed

The brilliance of it, he reminisced

Recollecting that thought, he also recalled

Her radiance and illumination – he missed

In the somber silence after sunset

The trusting moments of the past

He smoked the cigarette, with regret

Till she spoke, finally – at last

… “I do not love you” and more

“I only cared about you” to finish.

Yet, only the echoes of what came before

Repeated, replayed, and did not diminish

Heartbreak numbed his weary mind

No words, no response, could he find

And without warning, no alert, the end came about

The bulb, the light, the love – were all snuffed out.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Growing a Dream

Repeat the action millions of times,

Reproduce and reconstruct many lines;

Until new development, begins to reveal -

Then, without any satisfied relent,

Pursue the dream with even more zeal.

If what is initially generated, isn`t good enough;

Remember the first impression, is usually rough.

With tireless application of diligent revision,

The next attempt might encapsulate your vision.

It`s like a seed, hidden in the earth -

Which has yet to reveal it`s true worth.

Let the others turn their nose up,

While you continuously develop.

As your artistic command grows more grand and deft,

You`ll begin to understand and expose beautiful shoots.

Ground once thought to be bereft, holds your allure`s roots.

Study endlessly – weaving creation with your mental progress,

So you`ll never regress in your chosen art`s generation;

Then, soon you`ll be budding, flooding each piece with prowess.

No matter what happens within your life, every trial every test;

Never give up and always attempt your absolute best.

And remember, even with massive success, the most beauty

Is found in: remaining true to your work and endless humility.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Sailor, Holds Fast

In the people who stroll slowly by

He detects each roll of the eye;

But those he sees (their poorly hidden snickers)

Are the breeze, through a trees leaves

His trunk unmoved still, his verses still spill

The page is hungry, so he doesn`t wait

Leaving the ridicule to the sneering tricksters

Perhaps, it`s that he looks grungy, regardless his mind generates

Well-polished poetry – and these words in patterns, he disperses.

Their mocking – the sea, and he – a boat

Though they are rocking him as they gloat…

His vessel`s not stopping, he`s still afloat

Every attempt to cause him to sink, to push him to the brink

Is: motivation to elevate, what he will think;

Leaving trails of ink, repetitive ripples smoothing each kink.

Every so often his ship is lost in a storm, of hatred and scorn;

Leaving his spirit worn, the mind torn, poetry – forlorn -

Yet, as the tempest is shorn, new momentum is born.

And, once in a while, as the stanzas pile;

All furious animosity and woeful regrets –

He rapidly releases, drops anchor and forgets;

When he is met, with some stranger`s friendly smile.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Ant and The Tree

The overhead is filled with grey-white fog.

In a bog, the direction, tosses in the head;

When through the clouds, sunlight breaks.

“Courage, to say what`s right, is what it takes…”

The way to coalesce the classes,

The truth which combines the masses,

The life – no longer discriminated with strife.

The poet studies, the trinity`s word

To gain, the gift of wisdom

To attain, the right of freedom

Within every noun and verb

Accepting his personal imperfection

Adapting and refining his direction

Gratefully, accepting all correction

The light, is purified within the blackened heart

Till luminosity, is generated in all the rhythmic art

Within the sheer dark, it`s gaining more luster

To receive this spark, all bravery he must muster.

Knowing what every hateful critic will say

Bringing up the past, and the yesterday;

Still, from this purpose he refuses to stray,

And along this path he will remain and stay.

Behind the veil he, once, would hide;

Unable to ever allow his mind to take flight

The never-ending sorrow became his plight

Over taken by fear – which was grasping tight…

Until, the Son`s love came down, washing over his skin;

And awoke forgotten emotions lying dormant within.

Repeating couplets, triplets, and quatrains –

Enduring the dry heat, and cold rains;

All physical elements, and psychological pains.

The old was shed, and born again – anew;

By blood, he bled, and tears that flew.

Old anger – red, hurt – depressive blue.

He saw this ever-forgiving affection;

Was now ever-giving, a positive reflection.

This love imparted without any discrimination

Was the cipher, the last and final key –

It led to perfection for all humanity –

And the ability to render beauty, among every nation.

If none see any race, or inclination in sexuality;

Looking beyond sex and every face – and every impurity

To see each other for what we are,

Each one a universe, each one a star.

Within the iris, the gateway to the soul – the essence;

Against such love, there is no possible defense.

Even the small ant, ascends the bark of a massive tree;

To reach the apple and apprehend, full circle, its destiny.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Twenty-twenty

The apparent and seeming madness,

Are only the senses heightened;

Uplifted in the lengthy solace -

Frightened, but also enlightened.

“In the late empty night,

Filled with all-seeing insight.

Knowledge not used for destruction or power,

Though much seems void – in this desolate hour –

This artistic vision, is breeding positive construction;

Once blind sight employed, is now without obstruction.

While unable to see the present clearly,

Looking beyond the sea of the evident;

Fantasia is visible, almost perfectly…

In Utopia, the eyes are a resident…”

The instant, Life and Death,

Every exhale of warm breath;

Are just more momentary metaphors,

Purchased from a neurological store.

Every sensual and physical reception

Has no effect on our core.

The pain the heart endures

The blissful – every conception

All emotions, through time, are fleeting

Every object, in slow decay – retreating.

It often seems, for all life gives –

That bitch also takes away;

But in the dreams, all beauty lives

For eternity, never to see a ditch

Dug down six feet - it`s never ending,

The journey, into a world of play.

- Artists are the dreamers -

The hands of mortal time

Are rendered into no more;

Than imagination`s secret door,

In the artist’s frame of mind.

Even the concrete building, rising, in its absolute mass;

Is born from the same material, which gives us glass.

A passing, accelerating automobile;

No longer is moving modern steel,

When entering the artist’s second view –

Just a cloud drifting out in the blue.

For it is observed that all objects in the universe

Are composed of atoms, molecules;

Which are in a base way, quite the same…

So, to the “nutty” poetic frame of brain;

All objects exposed to metaphor`s rules,

Achieve the same comparison when placed in verse.

As this realization is reached, what seems like insanity;

Fades from view, and becomes no more than: perfect clarity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Ask, and You Shall Recieve

As the poet closes his eyes, and reflects

The symbols and sights, project – all connects.

The conscious, though alert, is taken off afar;

All of realities visions, lines of divisions – mar.

It`s hard to decipher, everything he sees;

Returned to the flesh, by an evening breeze.

The worn legs are bent, ninety degrees;

The eyes are at the right angle -

To attempt to unconstrict, untangle -

His inner conflict; which begs, to present

Evidence of: the truth without disguise,

“Reality without the lies, Please”!

Unseen spiders weaving their webs;

The illusion ebbs, through the current of time -

Like a masterful poet, weaving the internal rhyme

The simple focus entirely on the end line;

While others, the entirety, is on their mind –

The visionary; the outside–insiders.

Then, the bard stares high into the beautiful night sky,

Reaching a realm of pure serendipity -

Then, again; prepares to string his own alluring lie.

Silent music, his life`s only mission;

Expressions without any permission -

Words given to him by the divinity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Tempering Adherence

The smith opens his anvil, his workstation.

Hammer in hand, mentally, attempting all he has planned:

To form another creation, based on observation.

Creative steel – in demand – yields to his every command.

The hard work will undergo many an alteration;

Creative designs, revisions in the mind.

Decisions based on the ornate eloquence,

Thoughts realigned; impurities cause frustration.

Fiery red metallic ink – new sparks will flash,

Under the pressure of each hammer crash.

Pushing mettle to the brink, with line;

The work is slowly forming to his preference.

Forcing past each new mental block,

Racing against mortality`s cooling clock.

Into the raging fire; there focused, his seemingly blank stare -

Which holds purpose beyond compare, fuelled by pure desire.

Knock after knock, the heart keeps pounding;

Shock after shock, the mind keeps rebounding.

A craftsmanship rather rare; for when situation seems dire,

When the face is in the mire, he still sees all things fair.

Crafting, sweating – though others may not understand;

Steadily, readily – forging forward with dedication -

Until, every strand, of what started of barren and bland;

Has become a gilded creation, of his fruitful imagination.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

Destruction breeding Creation

The waves of air rush over this dreaming head

While ink is expelled from a plastic paper`s mate

A concrete jungle built on the graves of the red

While staring around at this once hallowed native ground

The mind wanders as it ponders the beauty we create

The ingenuity is so prevalent it can easily astound

Sad…

Yet, destruction that breeds new creation

The cars burning gas, as they rapidly pass

The materials consumed weaving the clothes we wear

The bottle destroys a beach to create it`s glass

A person is fueled, the evidence? The core of a pear

A dead tree for inscribing poetic manifestation

Humanity is building dreams and massive towers

That are stretching and reaching into the clouds

We inspire another, in constant streams and showers

So much beauty for everyone to enjoy and to view

The absolute allure, so pure; covers and shrouds

Is seen in every new sight under the high ocean blue.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Empty Poet

For every poem that is shown

Six poems are hidden away

For every flower that is grown

Six seeds in the earth still lay

For all the various emotions

Which are poetically expressed

The one that occurs most

Which is mostly repressed

(Not to brag or boast)

Is the feeling of indifference

This life is rife

With strife and pleasure

There`s leisure and labor

Which create feelings

That come in every flavor

In these emotional dealings

For all the various emotions

He personally prefers to remain empty

When he is not immersed in poetry

For if he didn`t cloak his mind in apathy

Then his mind would bring him insanity.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

The Positive Poet

Feeding off ridicule and all the negativity

The mercury in his verbal transmutation

No more than a tool in crafting positivity

The energy sent to him – ugly

Is re-wired, by poetic desire

To power the circuit of beauty

All the evil, angry, and critically cast looks

By basic division and revision

Become quotients of happiness in his books

Every moment of personal despair and resent

Through simple magic and complex logic

Is turned into joy and motivation, without relent

The projections and vocalizations, every voice that hates

Sound in the ear canal, and somehow channel

Into cheer without drear, in the compositions he creates

Every pointless fear, felt in the sweating cold

Is purified till the tonic is clear, all abuse denied

Then drinking the supplied mixture, he grows bold

Every single feeling of being contrite, felt in emptiness of night

Through line and pen and rhyme, are turned into sunshine.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker

A Sparrow Into The Sun

"Apollo be my sole guide,

Most valued muse;

In your craft I confide,

This vessel – use".

Under the falling sunshine of this day,

This world of electrical lights and sirens – surrounds.

The concrete structures and movement of steel,

Numbs all the senses and the cognition – it confounds.

Diluting free formed expression and wordplay.

This Face in a Book, constant attempts to conceal.

My mind repeatedly will ask:

How much of what is now being perceived

(The mentally relayed data and information;

The sights, scents, sounds, and thoughts received)

Is anything more than a momentary mortal manifestation,

And what is the purpose of this fleeting task?

This is the great weight on my shoulder:

Since, beauty is in the eye of the beholder;

How is Venus poetically revealed,

If within another`s eye she is concealed?

At times it feels like the pen is staring into the sun;

Glaring, blaring, binding, and blinding its vision.

I`ve followed Athena and her invisible owls -

Through the cold dark of midnight,

With the many verbal and written prowls;

Yet, for all the intelligence and knowledge,

The essence of allure escapes all I write.

To your craft, my heart – I repeatedly pledge.

Committed to this labor of love,

Immersed in it every single day;

With not a care or concerns,

As time degrades this body away.

The soul is sent to the sun high above,

While the rising heat continuously burns;

Purifying every single imperfection,

In each inscribed altar`s erection.

Still, steady in this poetic toil.

The pen is my inky hoe,

With which I till the lined soil;

Though it is muddy, soaked,

Saturated in lonely woe.

My hearts throat is choked,

Strangled by the wires of despair;

Still these verses of fire are prepared,

Each ember word has been stoked.

To you Apollo, I`ve rendered another sacrifice.

More dues and homages are tendered,

Here on this page, in this technological age;

Where papers and screens rapidly splice.

My mind and heart, I`ve dismembered;

With meticulous calculations, no hate, no rage.

More alchemic calcinations, made by

Movements in versification;

Yet, another supplication,

Of poetic creation is sent to the sky.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker